Conflict Of Souls
by Chrissy Renee Pinto
Summary: Arthas/Sylvanas romance fanfiction. It is a series of drabbles that traces their *ahem* relationship to the final conflict. Reviews are much appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

I am shocked that no one did any Arthas/Sylvanas drabbles. I mean seriously folks, this pairing definitely deserves exploring. To encourage others, here are 100 word drabbles! Please read/review.

**Reflection**

Arthas' eyes are fixed on the woman standing before him. The face of the resistance. An Elven Ranger. So proud, noble and resilient. Goodness shining from every pore of her body. Feeding the self-righteous wave that threatens to drown him. Unbidden, something stirs inside him. He can feel the ice shift on a slight breeze. Memories. Strong hatred rushes through his veins, bubbling slow and poisonous.

The sun's rays set her golden hair aflame. Eyes pierce his shadowy soul with iron determination and her stanch is one that projects a wall for the innocent and unprotected.

Mirrors reflect. Sometimes people can imitate mirrors. If he looks hard enough-pushing past the icy contempt-there are fragments of his own soul staring back. Distorted and disturbed.

The fractured remains of the man he once was- they are imbedded in his body, carving him slowly and deeply from the inside. It is ignored. What need would he have for regret?

Only the need to consume- posses- thrums through his body. In tune to the portentous whisper leaden with the arid rasp of death. It guides his ominous path.

They gaze at each other, unwavering-a myriad of intense emotions simmer on their faces.

Arthas' arrogance directs his thoughts, gives them more value than they are worth. The woman is nothing more than a petty annoyance. But she does provoke a reaction, small, a flicker of the old Arthur. Rising as if by her command. '_Was the future written in stone? Is my nature irreversible? A step in the opposite direction, a decision against.. the future king. I have already spurned one beloved King.'_

Shuts down his thoughts. The idea is unthinkable.

He loathes her for it. It shows. The perpetual sourness curdles on his face like milk in the sun. The twisted malevolence tightening his desiccated countenance grows hollowed and sunken. The coldness wrapping his body emanates a bitter chill.

Pretty Elven ranger sworn to protect without questioning. She hasn't reached out into the abyss and returned with a taint on her clean armor. Something black or gruesome that can burrow under her skin. A terrible act besmirching the proud gold, blue and silver. Even if possible-she would simply cast the act aside as-**necessary. **He could behave in such a manner- once. His lies have eaten away at his cloak. The color drained to lifeless grey.

He raises Frostmourne. The sword catches a prism of light; it winks fleetingly at him before being sucked into the black metal. Wicked thoughts dance in his head; _Destroy. Power. Control. Contaminate. _AnIncessant pounding against his skull and his body has shrivelled to enclose the sounds more fully.

His Hunger cannot be satiated by the mere devouring of souls and the puppetering of bodies. His thirst not to be satisfied not even by the spilling of copious amounts of blood.

Sylvanas had heard stories about the prince. Very conflicting stories. The Elven warrior can discern which of the two stories ring true. However, whispers of the other - stories that paint him as human, still cling to him. Like brown leaves cling to a naked tree branch in the last days of encroaching winter. The words of glory, now meaningless, are brown, arid things slowly incinerated to grey ash in the wake of the burning fires of his greed, lust and wrath.

To Sylvanas, he means nothing to her. Prince or butcher. Living or Dead. Sylvanas will defeat him. An enemy of her people. A threat to her lands. She spares his "condition" very little thought

Only one thought throbs through her veins, saturates her blood made thick with adrenalin in preparation for battle. _Protect_ . The word in her heart hammers a beat against her chest. It is not simply a word. It embodies honor, love, trust and home. Gifts she received from birth. Bequeathed unconditionally. She would not surrender willing these most precious, valuable treasures.

Sylvanas and Arthas. Two distinct entities. Both driven by an internal force that emerges from the very heart of light and dark respectively. One warped and twisted to lead the darkness in a bloody onslaught. The other bright and radiant, the very essence of beauty derived from the golden disc in the sky that cares for the world. Light glows, opaque and hot, to ward off the blackness. Darkness, in all its inky, deadly glory, crawls in frigid glee to tear her world apart. However, neither of the two participants are aware-when darkness attempts to devour wilful sparkles of light-all one gets is shadows.


	2. Chapter 2

**Scent**

The moment the distinct "scent" of his arrival first assaulted her senses, the world shifted under her feet. Vapors crawled past her nose and down her throat, raising an itch as they descended into her gut, making it roil wildly with their thick and pungent odor.

'_Nothing can be__worse than standing against this smell._'

The pernicious, vile smell evaporates from lumbering, decaying bodies that marched forward to corrupt all that was pure and sacred, like a cloud of evil and death.

Her nerves were electrified and her muscles went taut, her head swimming with possible tactics and plans. The impending destruction of her homeland was a smothering heaviness that bent her shoulders with its weight. But it was not a burden. Duty could never become a burden.

Hope was present for a time, hidden within confidence, bolstered by a belief in victory and the power of good. She would rather die than watch her home descend into ruins.

Now she walks across the eleven lands—her home, part of her very soul—immersed in the very essence of the devastation; breathing into her wispy body the foetid stench of the unclean dead. With every step, she is constantly awashed in their suffocating putrefaction and rot.

In the throngs of her worst agony, she allows herself to be comforted by the feeble brush of a whistling wind. It carries her to the edge of the army, past their awkwardly, shuffling carcasses. Their beady white dried eyes swivel to track her movements for a moment before returning to their task of pummeling the land with their horrible intentions. Her mind toyed with the thin line between past and present, shifting from the gray, desiccated and cursed lands of the present to the vivid and grassy forests of her past.

A brief taste of the sweet-smelling honey of nature, which the decay of the Scourge had not touched, wafted past her before fading into nothing once more.

Normally, she stayed out of their line of vision, slinking between their black shadows where the stench of rot thickened. Now, she lingered at the very edge of the army.

With the wind at her back to chase away their rancid stench, she savors a few seconds' freedom from Arthas' foulness.

Until, a short distance from their next conquest, Arthas beckons her to his side. His desire transforms into a thrumming sort of urgency that swallows her consciousness, overwhelming her very soul.

She can feel his desire crawling under her skin. Their connection allows him to access her body in an absolute violation of her free will. With a flick of a finger, his thoughts override her own, sweeping them away like a tsunami across an island of sand.

"I cannot help but notice the position you see to favor in my army. You are one of my generals, not some skulking foot soldier!" His voice is cool, stilted and almost reproachful. Eyes roam over her face when she doesn't reply; silence is her only weapon to safeguard the independence of her thoughts. He casually flicks a finger and agony wracks her body, doubling her over with the force of it.

"What thoughts move about in your mind, I wonder?"

She forces herself to straighten and sputter out, "I was merely… smelling, My Lord."

"Smelling." He arches a stark white eyebrow skeptically, but she holds his gaze, hoping the defiance is subtle enough to escape his notice.

"You are dead." As if it is possible to escape such a morbid fact. "There is nothing for you to smell." There is a short pause, before he growls low and commanding, "Walk beside me."

She finds a place beside his stinking horse with no pointless demonstrations of reluctance- such audacity has no purpose in the army.

It is not long before she tires of having mud sloshed about her and levitates a little higher. The sudden close proximity to Arthas seems almost to thicken the air between them. It takes an enormous amount of effort to reduce her repulsed frown to a more appropriate standard, one that will not earn her another harsh bout of pain. He has no scent, unless there is any distinct smell that could be attributed to ice. It is unfortunate that she has developed the inclination towards Arthas' side rather than walking among his monsters, even if it is only to avoid the overpowering stench of decay.

**Hope u enjoyed the second part. Please review!**


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